Day By Day
by SilverSpring
Summary: "A ghost in life as in death, I long for the footsteps I once haunted."


_**Day by Day**_

* * *

_**A ghost in life as in death, I long for the footsteps I once haunted.**_

* * *

**1850s**

_Day by day she waits. _

_They say the old cafe will be knocked down with the rest of the houses, to make room for the grand boulevards that will soon bring all of Paris into regimented line. _

'_Too many rebellions' they say. 'The government needs to take back control of the streets'._

_Passersby say it's about time, too, for the little winding alleyways are a dreadful inconvenience to the marketers that arrive on Thursday mornings, and the carriages that rattle clumsily over the broken cobblestones. What's more, the old deserted buildings are a dirty blemish upon the ever-brightening city landscape. She wonders where she will go if the rumours are true, and whether the boy has heard them; for he too, visits. _

_The whole place is dilapidated and crumbling slowly on one side, the walls stained with damp and bits of broken glass littering the floor. She returns daily, slipping through the door unseen (by most) and waiting quietly until the evening stars draw her back out like a moth. He steals wordlessly past her, footsteps whispering across the unswept floors, and she wonders at his bravery to tread the upper rooms, for the stairs have all but crumbled to dust, and what remains of the ceiling looks ready to follow at any given moment. _

_They say the old place is haunted. _

_The wind whistles mournfully through the gaps in the walls, which creak and grunt as an old man in pain. She sits near the light of the doorway, hugging her knees to her chest, and averts her gaze from the darkness of the upstairs rooms, empty and black, and threatening._

* * *

**1880s**

_D__ay by day she waits. _

_She perches upon the back of an ornate chair, bare feet resting on the plush velvet cushion, and listens to the old gentlemen complain of the eyesore that now rises, growing higher every day above the city rooftops. _

'_It's a disgrace,' they say. 'Who could ever want such a hideous monstrosity imposing over all Paris? You could see it from the moon! Why, in my day they wouldn't have allowed for it.' _

_The girl wonders if they'll fix the tower like they fixed this place, to suit themselves and forget what once was. _

_She admires the ladies with their pretty dresses and parasols, such luxuries she's never known, as they titter quietly like birds and waft elegant fans across their powdered faces. The parlour is popular with holidaymakers who arrive by train to the city, and she is transfixed by the customers who arrive for their afternoon tea on these quiet Sundays, strolling arm in arm through the open door. She studies their faces as they drift through on the breeze, and waits for the one she wishes to see most. _

_She still never ventures upstairs if she can help it, for they say that a malevolent spirit resides there. _

_(Old wives' tales, most likely, but Éponine knows what's good for her and is no longer one to take chances.)_

* * *

**1920s**

_Day by day she waits. _

_She walks amongst the people as they sip their cocktails and gossip about the latest dance crazes and cinematic developments ("I tell you, the Talkies are the future, my dear!"). Their faces are cheerful, voices bright and figures bedecked with glittering jewels and feathered headbands, but she has always been one for moving in the shadows. _

_She flinches one day as the bar is closing, when turning her head to check behind she sees a familiar face, but it is the wrong one. He stands in the shadows of the staircase, pacing as a guard dog might prowl before his master's flock, warding off thieves and intruders. Perhaps I should warn him of the ghost, she thinks, but as she glances back once more she finds the boy gone. She's never had the guts to face the fearless leader in red, and he ignores her for the most part anyhow. _

_The people too, look through her, as ever they did; but when she passes too closely they shudder, pulling their scarves and furred coats more tightly around their scandalously bare shoulders, complaining that in this day and age there should be better heating in these establishments. _

'_It's creepy in here,' the young flappers say, 'It's always cold, and the floorboards creak. I swear the walls have eyes.' _

_But they laugh as they leave, dancing into the night, for it is the Golden Age and the world keeps turning on and on._

* * *

**1930s**

Day by day he waits.

The people hurry past in the near vacant streets, eyeing one another with suspicion. They say something's stirring in the West, that there's trouble ahead. There is tension in the air, and the men converse in low voices, their heads bent close together over cigar smoke and whiskey. The women trail their husbands home by the sleeve, worry etched into their faces.

And when the world comes, Paris is held captive, a bird beating its wings against the cold metal bars of its cage. On these days the wind howls ever more loudly through the cracks of the upstairs windows, the shutters beating a drum march upon the walls.

The people go hungry.

They fight back delicately, grouping together around the crackling English accents that emit, quiet and rebellious, from radios stowed carefully under the tables. They share knowing glances, and their eyes narrow sharply with every piece of information that sheds new light on the conflict. Underground newspapers provide intelligence of artillery movements in the east, and strangers nod their heads, furtively handing each other envelopes under the lamplight of the deserted streets, before melting away into the night.

He waits on a knife-edge, but for once the girl turns her face away; she's known enough of war.

(She does not return for many days, but Éponine is certain he remains, listening closely to the whispers of the people who come and go, eyes burning alongside the fate of his beloved city.)

* * *

**1950s**

_Day by day she waits. _

_They arrive in pairs for the dance, skirts swishing and shoes squeaking on the polished wooden floors, as they order their sundaes and play lively music on the jukebox. They do not shiver as she passes through their frolics, but as they jive a heat rises as though from a fiery tempest, and they hastily remove their shoes from their aching feet and ask for extra ice in their sodas. _

_Sitting at the sides of the dance floor, the girls are teased by their beaus, who spin tales of a malevolent murderer who came to his sticky end on this very spot; they goad of a terrible rebel whose burning fury becomes tangible at night, when the young teens twist and shout upon his grave. They laugh as a door bangs somewhere upstairs, and the girls clap their hands to their mouths to stifle their squeals of terror._

_("Ooh, Susan, sounds like he wants us to get out...")_

_The girls giggle nervously, pretending to hit them square on the arm before pulling the boys outside for a quick kiss beneath the streetlight on the corner. _

_Éponine watches them go, and dreams of the day that a kiss from her beloved will thaw out her own icy cold lips._

* * *

_The other remains upstairs, sullen and furious, and sad._

* * *

**2000s**

_Day by day she waits. _

_The people come and go casually, bustling through the door with their bags and bags of shopping; on rainy days they shake their umbrellas in the porch, and when it snows they are blown inside amidst a flurry of white. In the summertime the children squeal with delight and skip to the counter to choose their favourite flavour of ice cream, as their tired parents follow, laden with blankets and picnic baskets, exhausted from their day in the sun._

_From her corner of the cafe, the girl watches them curiously, the families and the workers, the young and the old; the lovers whispering to each other over shared chocolate milkshakes. She listens to their conversations, is captivated by their stories and smells, their strange clothing; she reads over their shoulders as they stand at the cashier desk, examining leaflets about the long history of the vicinity, and admiring the framed napkins signed by famous customers. _

_And when the young boys' careless shouts echo obnoxiously through the building, and plates crash to the ground without warning, she laughs with the crowd as the waitress jokingly exclaims, 'It's that darn resident ghostie again!' _

_(But she daren't stay the night in the locked up cafe, careful as always to check over her shoulder as they close the shutters at 5.30pm.)_

* * *

_The world is a bud, unfurling petal by petal and leaf by leaf, to reveal new dawns, and still he does not come. _

_Day by day she returns and waits quietly, patiently searching for that long lost face she used to know, oh, so very well. But he has long since departed with his beloved bride, and in her heart she knows he shall never return to this place. _

_And still there is another who waits here, too, hidden in the shadows of the upper back room. _

_For what, she will never ask. _

_So she remains, haunted by the generations who come and go, and losing count of the ticking hours that pass._

* * *

**_Fin..._**


End file.
